Jaroo laughs at Xenon's comment about the arrows. "Rest assured, giant frogs can be dangerous, but they are mortal creatures. Hit one hard enough or often enough, and it ceases to be a threat. As far as the stranger goes, I cannot say if he is involved with the zombie attack. I have no evidence that he is, but the reports of squirrels and songbirds often aren't as detailed as one would want. Caution is warranted, I'm sure, especially since my friends have been unable to track this stranger's movements. If my friends are to be believed, he seems able to come and go without a trace."

OOC

Sorry the unpardonable hold up. Mea culpa maxima. If there are no more questions for Jaroo, the party can buy whatever supplies they can afford. Hommlet isn't much of a shopper's paradise. No item costing more than 100 gp is available. No magic item costing more than 50 gp is available, which very much limits choices. More expensive or exotic items can perhaps be ordered from a larger community.

Afterwards, he'll look for an axe weapon or something like that - while he still doesn't take Xenon's advice seriously - and go on to buy some flasks of oil and get some pieces of cloth from the local tailor...

Waiting for the others at the Inn of the Welcome Wrench, he'll start to build small 'fire drinks', as they are called in his hometown in Veluna...

Xenon the soulknife, Dacen the cleric, Norim the fighter, and Gordon the warmage depart Hommlet, as rested as can be, newly provisioned, and resolute in their mission to rescue the abducted infant and destroy the source of this new evil which has afflicted the village. As the adventurers follow the northwest road toward the forest, several villagers wave and call down blessings upon them. Once past the Church of St. Cuthbert, the trees grow taller and closer together. The branches reach across the road, tangling limbs overhead to form a sort of leafy tunnel. Sunlight dapples through the interlaced boughs. After about a half hour, Dacen spots the stone marker that denotes where they are to leave the road and enter the woods proper toward the moathouse.

"It's not that far," Dacen says, "but the way can be rough. The ground gets swampier as we go."

Even though it is about mid-day, the forest is full of shadows. The canopy overhead admits little sunlight, almost none of it direct, except for intermittent shafts of brilliance like narrow spotlights. The ground declines slowly but steadily. The party crosses one narrow creek, then another. The dark earth gets softer, spongier, and the heavy odor of rotting vegetation hangs in the air. Crickets and frogs can be heard but not seen. Clouds of midges buzz about. Then, up ahead about ten yards, leaning against a cairn, is what appears to be a beggar in a ratty old cloak. He looks toward the party and rattles a tin cup.

The beggar capers forward, rattling his tin cup at arm's length. He smiles broadly, but says nothing. In fact, he makes no sound at all except the rattling cup and the shuffle of his feet along the ground. After performing a brief dance, he bows, sets his cup down, and somersaults backward to come back up on his feet.

Now that he's closer and more visible, it is obvious that his ragged clothes are the typical motley of a jester.